Going to a tailor means being surrounded on three sides by giant, well-lit mirrors, and on one side by a tailor who just sees you as another mannequin, a series of limbs for him to coldly and wordlessly stroke and poke at. He'll pinch your waist, glide his hands up and down your legs, and take complete control over your limp arms and you just have to stand there and not freak out, because there are other people waiting to get measured and they have nothing to do but watch you. As the socially awkward man-- because of the lights, and the touching, and all of the eyes-- you will get impossibly sweaty almost immediately, and the tailor will know. And you'll know he knows, and he'll think it's a horrible magic trick you're doing on purpose, because no one who gets that sweaty that quickly should have survived in nature, evolutionarily speaking.
At my fitting, in addition to the tailor, Julio, there was another attendant, a woman who (I hope?) worked at the suit store that liked watching. She didn't like something Julio was doing, and instead of communicating it with words, she grabbed the front of my pants, right at the button, because I am, again, a mannequin. I know she grabbed the button of my pants I told my penis, and I know this is going to be hard for you to believe, but that does not mean she wants to have sex with us. I know. I know, man, it's crazy. She said "pleats," pinched the front of my pants and then just shook them several times. Just tugged and shook, up and down-- my genitals flopping loosely with total abandon-- said "pleats" a few more times and asked Julio if he saw what she was talking about. "Do you see, Julio? ::shake flop shake, shake flop shake:: Do you see what I'm looking at?"
"You don't have to answer her, Julio."
It occurs to me that I might have just gone to the shittiest tailor in Los Angeles.